


Muscle Memory

by Iverna



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Canon-Compliant, Captain Swan - Freeform, F/M, Fluff, Missing Scene, sword-fighting!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-14 08:12:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8005240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iverna/pseuds/Iverna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>... in which Killian teaches Emma how to sword-fight, and they both explore this new thing between them. (Set in those six weeks after Elsa left. Because by the season 4 finale, Emma suddenly knew a lot about handling a sword, and we never got to see her learn.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Muscle Memory

“Move your feet, love.”

The dull clacking of the wooden swords echoes across the docks as Emma bats Killian’s blade away and tries a swipe at his head. He blocks it easily, and she has to hurry to bring the weapon back up as he moves his arm as if to strike at her left side.

It’s an instinctive move, and she curses herself even as she does it. His weight is on the other foot. He won’t strike left.

But it’s too late to change direction, so her sword only meets air, and a split second later, she feels the light tap on her right side signalling that, once again, she has lost.

“Damn it!” she bursts out. “I knew it!”

Killian grins at her, and her momentary anger at herself flees at the sight in front of her. He’s dressed for the occasion, in nothing but boots, pants, and shirt. It’s one of his pirate shirts, a wide-sleeved, flowing black one that tucks into his pants and shows off half of his chest due to his chronic disregard for buttons. His cheeks are flushed, his chest heaving, and his dark hair is mussed and falling into his face – a good look on him, as most things are.

These lessons are not an excuse to see Killian Jones in his full sword-duelling, swashbuckling glory, but Emma will admit that it is a definite bonus.

“Aye, I saw you hesitate,” he says. “If you’d leaped back instead, I might have missed you.”

He steps back into position, gestures for her to do likewise, and raises his sword again. “See, if I swing this way...”

They go through the feint and subsequent hit again, more slowly. This time, instead of keeping her arm moving, Emma takes a long step backwards, and Killian’s sword swipes by in front of her.

She nods, stepping closer again, gripping her weapon. “Okay. Again.”

His answer is another swing of his blade.

 

*  *  *

 

They meet most days, down by the docks, once Emma has finished her shift at the station. Sometimes Henry joins them, though he’s making an effort to spend more time with Regina these days, kind-hearted soul that he is. David talks of joining them, but between work and a newborn son, his schedule hasn’t allowed it yet.

This is her life now, Emma reflects with a certain degree of marvel. Police the town of Storybrooke with Prince Charming, meet Snow White for lunch, maybe collect her son from the bus on days when he’s not staying with the Evil Queen, and head down to the docks for sword practice with Captain Hook.

A strange choice as far as couple activities go, maybe, but then, they make for a strange couple, period. Emma still isn’t used to thinking of herself and Killian as a _couple_ , but while they haven’t put a label on their relationship, it definitely is a relationship.

Even if they haven’t managed to fit in a _real_ second date yet.

But relationship or not, he doesn’t go easy on her. He’s been pushing her from the moment she first showed up down at the docks with two practice swords borrowed from Henry. Swordplay is not to be taken lightly, he says, and she won’t learn a thing if he holds back too much.

It’s not as bad as she expected.

Even though they start with footwork, which is both anticlimactic and confusing. (Killian puts her through two days of it to start, sword in hand but not in use, only focusing on staying balanced. She mimics his pose, legs slightly bent, one arm held out behind her for balance, and tries to hold the sword steady. He advances, and she retreats; he retreats, and she follows up. She stumbles more than she cares for, but she learns that she can recover, not gracefully, but quickly enough to avoid falling on her face. By the second day, she’s watching his feet more than her own, and begins to predict whether he’ll advance or retreat.)

 Even though she gets frustrated, and the desire to toss the sword away and give up wells up inside her. (The one time she does, Killian gives her the most infuriatingly smug grin, and asks her if she’s had enough. Her answer is to reclaim her weapon and strike at him again; he fields the attack, but he has to take two steps back, then another, before her fury. She relents after he parries another two strikes, stepping back and breathing hard.

“Never.”

He grins, as if she didn’t just attack him with far more earnest intent than a sparring session warrants. “That’s the spirit, Swan.”

 Only Killian Jones, she reflects, would be _proud_ of the fire for burning him when he plays with it.)

It’s an exercise in frustration, interspersed with just enough success and, yes, fun, to keep her coming back for more. Killian teaches the way he does everything else, provocative and encouraging and patient and demanding, pouring everything he has into the effort even while making light of it. It’s exasperating at times, watching her weapon clatter to the ground again when he knocks it from her hand, but she perseveres. She thinks that she’s learning almost as much about Killian as about swordplay, and that alone makes it worthwhile.

It doesn’t escape her attention that it’s a metaphor for their relationship, only flipped around. She hasn’t exactly made it easy for him, either. It seems that the time has come to pay her dues in that regard.

But, really, she couldn’t ask for a better teacher.

(She’s careful not to say so if her father is around.)

 

*  *  *

 

She has used a sword before, but never with any kind of instruction, and she wouldn’t call her previous efforts an unqualified success. It isn’t until Killian guides her through a few movements that she realises just how much luck was involved in all of her efforts to date.

“Relax, love,” he tells her, eyeing her stance critically. “Bring your arm up, but keep your back straight. It’s a sword, not a club.”

She sighs, tries the movement again, but pauses halfway through. “Wait, now do I swing right or left?”

“Right.”

She can feel that it’s wrong again even while she moves; the motion feels heavy, and she knows she’s overcommitted to the move again, putting too much weight behind it instead of letting the sword do the work for her.

“Here, allow me.” Killian steps closer and around her, avoiding the weapon she’s still holding aloft and coming to stand right behind her. He reaches around to hold her wrist with his good hand, and she can feel his breath on her left cheek when he says, “Let’s try it again. En garde.”

His voice is low, rumbling in his chest, and he’s standing close enough that every movement means she brushes against him. She’s not sure this qualifies as _helping_. It certainly doesn’t help with concentrating.

But she’s not about to tell him that.

She lets him guide her arm into guard position, then through the parry manoeuvre that she’s been trying to wrap her head around.

“Relax.” His voice has dropped a little more in both volume and pitch. His hook nudges her side. “Keep your back straight, love.”

“How the—” Her voice sounds husky; she clears her throat. “How the hell am I supposed to remember all of this?”

“You don’t,” he says, guiding her through another parry. Under his touch, the movement is more restricted, and she can feel the difference. The blade is steadier, the motion more precise, and she herself is sure on her feet throughout it. “With sufficient practice, it becomes instinct, rather like bracing yourself when you’re about to fall. You don’t think about it.”

His leg nudges the back of her knee, a gentle prompt, and she moves her foot and shifts her weight. He moves with her, sweeping her arm down in a cross slash. She has to swallow. “Right. Muscle memory.”

“What?”

“You know. When your body remembers what to do all by itself.”

“Muscle memory,” he repeats, his accented voice wrapping around the words in a way that gives them a very different meaning. “Aye.”

It doesn’t just apply to sword-fighting, Emma knows; in fact, what her body is remembering right now has nothing to do with any kind of fighting. It has to do with the way they move so easily together, the way his breath stirs the loose strands of hair that have escaped from her braid, the way his voice seems to sink right into her. Relationship or not, their quiet moments have been few and far between, interrupted constantly by Snow Queens and magic hats and Rumplestiltskin. But it doesn’t matter, not when she can feel the heat from his body against her back, when she knows how it feels to have his arms wrapped around her and his hand tangled in her hair.

She’s held his heart in her hands. After that, all the etiquette and protocol about dates and how long to wait before calling seems a little ridiculous.

His hand tightens on her arm, just a little, before he remembers himself and his grip relaxes again.

As scary as it is to think that her body responds to his so readily, it’s more than gratifying to know that she has just as much of an effect on him. All she has to do is turn her head and lean back just a little...

She doesn’t think about it.

She catches him off-guard when she tilts her head back and to the side, meeting his eyes with a smile that might be just a little provocative. Her free hand comes up to stroke his cheek, brushing over the stubble there and drawing him a little closer.

He smiles as he leans in for the kiss.

 

*  *  *

 

Killian rarely talks about his past, but there are hints of it scattered throughout his instructions, in the examples he gives, and most of all in the look he sometimes gets on his face when he glances out towards the sea.

Emma knows better than to ask; he’ll shrug it off, twist it into an innuendo, change the subject. But she doesn’t need to ask. Something between them has shifted again, since that near-disastrous moment in the clock tower, since she held his heart in her hands and everything made sense again. Or maybe something has shifted in her. She’s still curious, but she’s no longer suspicious, and she knows the difference now.

So she doesn’t pry. She just listens.

She finds out that he learned footwork and the basic moves from Liam, along with the principles of good form and a code of honour that even all the centuries as a pirate weren’t able to eliminate. She learns that Milah never mastered the finer points of sword play, wasn’t one for patience and precision, but that she made up for it in sheer reckless determination. She laughs with him when he admits that even after all these years, Liam’s ripostes would probably still be better-executed than his (damn him), and assures him that he more than makes up for it with his verbal comebacks.

His eyebrow goes up, and for a split second, something off-kilter flashes in his eyes, though he recovers quickly. “Was that a compliment, Swan? Surely I must have misheard.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

 

*  *  *

 

There are still times when Emma feels like she doesn’t fit in. When the conversation around the dinner table turns to reminiscing about the Enchanted Forest, when her parents and Killian and Regina understand references that she doesn’t get.

It doesn’t help to be reminded that she’s technically a fairytale princess herself. She doesn’t feel like one. She doesn’t feel like she could be one.

She finds herself leafing through Henry’s book, always ending up on the same page: _her_ page. A princess dancing with a prince.

But it was subterfuge, and it ended with being thrown into a dungeon.

Besides, she doesn’t make a good princess. She’s messy, and blunt, and she wears jeans and boots and carries a gun. She doesn’t carry herself with her mother’s grace. She doesn’t have Regina’s effortless royal air.

Killian disagrees. “Love, I’ve seen you covered in the dirt of Neverland, with a sword in your hand and fire in your eyes,” he says. “Every inch a princess.”

“You’ve got a weird idea of what being a princess is about.”

“Leadership, compassion, determination, charisma,” he replies immediately. “All of which you have in spades.”

She narrows her eyes. “I thought you didn’t like royalty.”

“I’ll admit I was prejudiced,” he concedes, and grins. “You won me over.”

A princess and a pirate. It doesn’t sound like it should work; it sounds like another strike against them. But then, the same might be said for a bandit and a prince, or a princess and a shepherd.

A few days later, Snow gives her some tips for her footwork over lunch, and Emma realises that maybe _she’s_ the one who had a weird idea of what being a princess is about. What’s more, maybe she gets to define it for herself.

And for every Enchanted Forest reference Killian makes, Emma has a movie quote or song lyric that leaves _him_ confused, so maybe they don’t have to be the same. Maybe it just balances out.

She likes that thought.

 

*  *  *

 

“Pay attention to _me_ , love,” Killian tells her. “Not just the weapon. Watch your opponent, how he moves, where his weight is.”

She huffs out a breath. “It’s hard enough to keep track of the sword.”

“Aye, but if you watch the one _wielding_ the sword, you can predict where the sword will be,” he says. “You’re holding back, keeping your distance. It’s like trying to dance while keeping your partner at arm’s length.”

Her mind flashes back at that, to the lesson he’d given her on that particular subject. _Pick a partner who knows what he’s doing._

“Kind of hard to trust a guy you’re meant to be fighting,” she mutters.

Killian raises an eyebrow. “The point is rather to trust _yourself_.”

He steps closer, a gleam in his eyes now. “Come on, Swan. There’s no harm in looking. You know I encourage it.”

She’s about to roll her eyes when she thinks better of it. She doesn’t have to deny it anymore. She doesn’t have to run from it, from him, anymore.

So instead, she looks him deliberately up and down, letting her eyes drift leisurely over his face, down to his half-exposed chest (his collarbones thrown into relief by the afternoon sunshine, his skin flushed with exertion), and down further still, all the way to his boots.

Then she looks back up at him, head still tilted downwards, and gives him a little smile.

He shakes his head, and she watches his throat work as he swallows. “Bloody hell.”

She widens her eyes innocently. “You _said_.”

“That I did, love.” He heaves a dramatic sigh. “That I did.”

 

*  *  *

 

It takes her a while to get the hang of it, but Killian is right about watching her opponent. Once she manages to shift her attention, she realises that it’s merely a different way of looking for lies. Instead of cues in his voice or eyes, she sees the lie in the way he moves, the way his hips don’t shift quite far enough, the way his arm doesn’t quite mean it.

The first time she identifies his feint and sidesteps his actual attack, he turns back to her with a wide smile splitting his face.

“Hah!” He looks more triumphant than after any of his own victories. “I bloody knew it. You _are_ a natural.”

 

*  *  *

 

Before she asked him out – that nerve-wrecking, heart-racing moment that she could only bring herself to face because she already knew the answer – she worried about what it would lead to. It isn’t like she’s had a lot of experience with relationships. The one with Walsh was the only one that went well, at least for as long as it _went_ , and there’s more than one reason why that doesn’t count. He was under orders. Maybe she did everything wrong, and he simply didn’t let on.

To her own surprise, this thing with Killian is... simple. Nothing has changed, except that his hand now reaches for hers when they walk along the street, and she can lean into him whenever she feels like it, and he greets her with coffee and a kiss before she walks him to the library and heads to work. It’s simple, and considering both their pasts, surprisingly innocent.

It’s what a girl’s _first_ relationship ought to be, she realises with a pang.

(Although, maybe minus the very deliberate and very knowing look that Killian gets in his eyes sometimes, when he’s kissing her goodnight and she’s moaning into his mouth and she knows that he knows _exactly_ what he’s doing. As does she, of course. Whatever innocence there is, it’s a choice.)

But it’s easy. He doesn’t push her. She doesn’t scare him off. They don’t always agree, but they’re both too stubborn to let it rest until they’ve resolved it and made up. (And _that_ part has become one of Emma’s favourites.)

 Even the labels thing is easy, in the end. She never knows how to refer to him in the abstract – is he her boyfriend? Lover? _Paramour_ , to steal a word she’s only ever heard from his mouth?

He solves the conundrum for her before she can ever bring it up, when he teases her about closing the station early one particularly quiet day. “I didn’t know that sword lessons with your man were considered an acceptable excuse to skip work, love.”

“In this town, I think that counts as part of my work,” Emma counters wryly, but she smiles as she says it.

Her man. She likes that. A simple word, a simple truth.

It doesn’t work both ways, of course. She is not his woman, as she learns; she’s his lady.

She rolls her eyes when he says it. “I’m hardly a lady.”

“You most certainly are,” he insists. “You’re my lady.” He nuzzles his face into the crook of her neck, brushing his lips over her skin. “My lady love.”

When he says it like that, she has to admit, it sounds kind of nice.

 

*  *  *

 

She still can’t beat him; it’s understandable given how much more practice he’s had, but it annoys her anyway, especially when he gloats. He’s doing it to rile her, she knows, but the knowledge doesn’t really help when she’s faced with that insufferable smirk and his ridiculous swagger as he retrieves the blade that he has, once again, knocked out of her hand. That’s a move she has yet to even try, a fast, whirling movement of his blade around hers which always leaves her weaponless.

A pirate’s trick.

Killian tosses her sword back to her in a perfect arc, every movement casual. “Do try to hold onto it this time, love.”

She narrows her eyes, feeling suddenly reckless. She’s been practicing magic, too, meeting Regina as often as she can handle it and going over a few things that Elsa told her in her own time. It’s still a little erratic, but when Killian is around, she can usually rely on it to work.

He yelps as his sword vanishes from his grasp, to reappear a few meters away on the ground. His eyes slide to her and widen when he sees what she’s holding in her hand. He looks back down at his now-empty brace, back to the hook in Emma’s hand, and she can’t help a delighted burst of laughter at the look on his face.

He’s not the only one who likes to play with fire.

“Bad form, Swan,” he admonishes, waving a finger at her, doing his damnedest to mask the amusement on his face and not quite succeeding. “Give it here.”

“Hmm.” She walks backwards as he steps towards her, matching him step for step just like in their early sessions. “Make me.”

His eyes narrow just before he breaks into a run, and she spins and runs away along the dock. She knows that she won’t make it very far, still breathless from the fight and now also from the laughter bubbling up inside her, and if she’s perfectly honest she’s more curious about getting caught than invested in running away. She can hear his boots hitting the ground behind her as he gives chase, and she laughs, a wild, free sound that seems to burst from her very soul.

(When he catches her, snaring her by the hem of her jacket and spinning her into his arms, she thinks that maybe he’s not so insufferable after all.)

 

*  *  *

 

David finally gets the chance to join them one evening, and Emma is both surprised and annoyed to find butterflies buzzing in her stomach as she faces her father with a practice sword in her hand. He’s smiling, and gives her an encouraging nod. “Okay then,” he says, twirling his sword around his hand once before settling into guard position. “Ready?”

His style is very different from Killian’s, and Emma counts it as progress that she’s able to tell right away. She’s seen him wield a sword before, in Neverland, but at the time she had several more important things on her mind. Now, she quickly realises that he presents a whole new challenge, because while she’s gotten good at reading Killian’s movements, she’s also become used to him. David is slightly taller, slightly heavier, and he wields his sword with both hands.

She thinks too much, and he has her beaten before she even realises. She shakes her head, gesturing him forward. “Again,” she says.

This time, she shifts focus, trying to fall into the rhythm of the fight as Killian taught her. She parries one attack, then another, and tries a strike at David’s legs that he deflects easily.

He moves as if to swipe low, but she can see the way his weight stays on his back leg, and her blade comes up to meet his as he swings high instead.

And then she disengages, moves in, and taps the pommel of her sword against his stomach before he can recover, rolling away to the side to avoid being hit in turn.

She’s not sure which of them is more surprised.

“Hah!” Killian crows from where he’s watching a safe distance away.

“Nice work,” David concedes, and there’s no mistaking the pride in his expression. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“That was the point,” Emma tells him, a little breathless and laughing at how absurdly pleased she is with herself.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” David grumbles, shooting a sidelong glance at Killian. “Pirate tactics, huh. I should’ve known.”

Killian looks absolutely delighted, unable to muster up even a token show of sympathy for David at being beaten like that. “I believe they’re princess tactics now, mate.”

Emma doesn’t manage to beat him again, now that he’s on his guard, but that does nothing to dim the triumph in her heart, nor the smile on David’s face when he hugs her and slaps Killian on the back (only a _little_ bit too forcefully).

Princess tactics. She likes the sound of that.

 

*   *   *

 

“Oh, come on,” she says as Killian demonstrates the move he wants her to imitate. “I thought we were fighting, not doing ballet.”

He gives her an injured look. “Hence the sword, love.”

“What _possible_ reason is there to spin around like that?” she asks. “Other than showing off. Be honest.”

“Even showing off has its uses,” he says with the slightest hint of a wicked smile. “But there’s more to this than distraction. It’s a way to use your momentum if you’re thrown off-balance, rather than stumbling out of the fight. It can add power to a strike if you need it. And it has the added advantage that your opponent has no idea where, exactly, your next strike is coming from.”

“Okay, fine.” She plants her feet the right distance apart and looks up at him. “So, what, I just twirl around on my tip-toes? _En pointe_ instead of _en garde_?”

“Generally speaking, we only do _that_ when we’re wearing a tutu.” He grins. “Special occasions, you understand.”

“I don’t even want to know.”

 

*  *  *

 

She executes the spin almost perfectly a week later, bringing her sword up and around, aiming at Killian’s side. He deflects the blow, dancing back a little out of range. Emma presses her advantage, carefully watching his every move, knowing that he likes to lure his opponents into traps like this. But she catches his next strike easily, rotates out of the way of another lightning-fast thrust, and takes a swipe at his legs.

He dodges that, bringing his sword back up and pointing at her. She bats at it once, twice, testing his resolve. Another pirate tactic, that, designed to show how unworried she is. There’s no real point to it here, but she’s supposed to practice, so she practices. Killian holds his ground, watching her, and when she strikes in earnest, he’s ready.

He parries the jab at his head, aims another swing at her side only for her to deflect the blow. Their blades clash and lock, and she looks past them at him, a little reckless smirk on her face.

Then she pulls back and aims another blow at his head. Once again, the blades clash, but this time, Emma doesn’t wait for them to lock. She’s never tried Killian’s disarming trick before, but he’s used it against her often enough that she’s figured out how it works.

Maybe.

Using the momentum of her weapon, she lets the blade slide along his, changes the angle, and tries to lever it from his hand.

It doesn’t quite work; he clings to it, long-trained reflexes refusing to let him relinquish his weapon like this, but it doesn’t matter. For a crucial split second, his sword is not where he needs it.

Emma points hers at his throat.

Killian’s eyes widen even as he reflexively moves his head up and back away from the blade. He’s breathing hard, as is she, and for a moment they just look at each other as they realise what Emma has just done.

“Surrender?” she asks, trying to sound cool.

“You just—” It’s a sure sign that Killian Jones is impressed when he struggles to find words – even if the condition rarely lasts long. “How the bloody hell is it you’ve learned that tactic when I know for a fact that we haven’t covered it yet?”

She can’t help it; she laughs, triumphant and a little giddy with it. “You said to watch you. So I did.”

A smile breaks across his face, and he shakes his head. “You’re a bloody marvel.”

She’s not quite sure what to say to that – she’s never sure what to say to it when he comes out with things like that, and the fact that she knows he’s just being honest doesn’t help. She glances down at her blade, which she’s let sink down to rest lightly in the hollow between his collar bones. It moves a little with each heavy breath he takes.

His chin is still raised, away from the blade, an instinct that she noted the first time she held a blade to his throat, long ago in another realm. His eyes are trained on hers, still smiling, but a familiar glint now giving his expression that roguish air.

“Well, Swan, it seems that I’m once again at your mercy. Are you going to release me, or did you have other plans?”

She smiles. “Do you surrender?”

His voice drops to barely above a whisper, and she can almost feel the hum of it in the air between them. “Aye,” he says. There is a wooden clatter as the sword drops from his hand. “I do.”

She holds her position for another heartbeat. Then she gives in, dropping her own weapon and closing the distance between them. Her lips find his as though drawn by magnetism; her right hand curls around his neck and into his hair, her left slides up his chest until she can feel the smooth ridge of his collar bone under her fingers. His hand is already cupping her cheek, and she can feel the hard curve of his hook press into her back as he pulls her closer, the way she knew he would.

 _Muscle memory_ , she thinks, but then he’s kissing her back and she gives up on thinking for the next while.

To hell with worries about status and difference. Those are details. This... this is what she knows. This is what matters.

This is home.


End file.
